The Night
by elysiann
Summary: Team MacGyver can't catch a break. They've taken down so many major syndicates and crime rings that really, none of them should be surprised at this point when the past occasionally comes back to bite them. Takes place before 2x23
1. Chapter 1

**Hi, MacGyver fans! I've been writing fanfic for the past seven years, but this is my first venture into the MacGyver fandom... I guess I got antsy waiting around for season 3, so I've been playing around with this plot in my spare time. I hope you guys enjoy, let me know what you think!**

 **Obligatory disclaimer applies. I own nothing. ;)**

* * *

 **Chapter One**

Mac had never really cared for bars.

Social drinking could just as easily be done in the comfort of his own home, surrounded by friends, without the added buzz of inebriated excitement adding to the ambience.

Not that he minded the public setting, necessarily... but something about the dim, hazy interior of a bar always made Mac a little uneasy. A poorly lit room packed with people whose judgement may or may not be significantly impaired seemed like the perfect breeding ground for petty thievery, pickpocketing, or stupid fights started over the smallest infraction.

But two weeks undercover had Bozer missing Los Angeles night life, so Mac agreed to join his best friend for a quick drink. A cold beer was probably just what he needed to wind down after a greuling mission, anyhow. Halfway through nursing his first beer, the blond's brow raised as he watched his friend polish off his third drink of the night.

"You're lucky Jack didn't come with us. He'd have a field day with all those mixed drinks you're getting. You'd never hear the end of those two screwdrivers, or..." Mac eyed the empty lowball glass beside him. "What was that last one?"

"Mojito." Bozer tipped his glass back one last time, catching the last few drops of rum and seltzer. "Tell me about it. I love a good beer as much as the next guy, but there's nothing wrong with a cocktail every now and then." Stirring the ice left in his glass, Bozer grinned. "I can practically hear his voice right now, 'all that fruit and sugar nonsense-'"

"'-got no place messin' up my alcohol'," Mac finished, mouth upturning into a grin of amusement. "I've heard that line a hundred times."

Applause off to his right caught Mac's attention, signalling another crowd pleaser from the kid singing at the back of the bar. Sounded like John Denver. Turning back to his beer, Mac watched a handful of patrons head outside, making room for another wave of jerseys arriving to watch the game that night.

Absently tapping the bartop, Bozer scanned the room. "Looks like a pool table is opening up - loser buys the next round?"

Glancing at his nearly empty bottle, Mac considered for a moment before shaking his head. "Sorry, Boze, I'm beat. Didn't get much sleep on the flight back home this morning." As if on cue, a yawn forced its way to the fore, only to be stifled as Mac gave his foggy head a quick shake. "Sorry. Stay as late as you want, but I think I need to head back. Matt wants us in early tomorrow."

Bozer nodded. "Sure thing. I'm pretty sure I can make a bet with few guys waiting for the game to start." A cocky wink indicated that he fully intended to win several drinks that night.

"Go easy on 'em, champ." Blond locks falling out of place over his tired blue eyes, Mac took the rest of his beer in one gulp. He shrugged into his jacket, wiped a sleeve across his mouth, and firmly gripped his friend by the shoulder. "Night, Boze."

"Later, Mac." Bozer clapped him on the back, heading toward the pool tables. Turning slightly, he called back, "Don't wait up for me, alright?"

"Not a chance," the seasoned agent answered, shaking his head. Hands stuffed into his pockets, Mac left the warm, shadowy bar and stepped out into the night.

Keeping his stride long, Mac walked briskly between the rows of cars. A full lot had forced him to park as far from the door as seemed humanly possible. A cool breeze brushed against his cheek as he walked, sending the barest tingle down his neck.

Mac could almost swear he could hear his footsteps echo as he crossed the wet pavement. But an irregular echo, not _quite_ in sync with the rhythm of his boots.

Mac swallowed the dryness that tickled his throat. His scalp itched; the back of his neck pricked warningly. Risking a glance over his shoulder - to assure himself that it was nothing, just his hyperactive senses on the fritz - Mac's chest tightened, his stomach twisting.

Dark sweatshirt, ball cap pulled low. The same man he'd seen leaving not ten minutes ago.

Your average, run-of-the-mill mugger, maybe? A hard up lowlife looking to land a wallet?

Metal glinted in the moonlight, a silver flash in the figure's hand; Mac's shoes pounded against the asphalt as he broke into a dead run. Great, he was armed. Fumbling in his pocket, he managed to find his keys the moment he reached his car.

The all-too-familiar _pop_ of a silencer sounded at his back a mere fraction of a second before hot metal barely scored the top of Mac's ear as he reached for the sedan's door. For a wound so small, the burning sensation was tremendous. Mac yanked the car door open and dove inside, adopting a new fervor as tires screamed against the asphalt, stopping short not six feet from his own vehicle.

A large, muscular arm stopped Mac's attempt to pull the car door shut and effectively separate himself from his attackers. Iron fingers wrapped around his arm and jerked him from the vehicle as if he were a rag doll, spinning him sharply and slamming him against the driver's side hard enough to knock the wind from his chest.

Falling back on years of combat training, Mac threw an elbow back, aiming for the larger man's ribcage as he attempted to turn and face his attacker in an effort to lessen his disadvantage.

As if the move was anticipated, the moment Mac's elbow landed, a rough hand caught his forearm and twisted sharply, eliciting a strained grunt from the smaller agent as his arm was pinned behind him.

Fingers entwined in his hair yanked his head up, then the hood of the car seemed to rush up to meet him; and everything went white - blinding, fiery white, like electricity - and completely silent for one long, excruciating moment. Then the sounds of electronic music and intoxicated laughter rushed back all at once, his vision tunneling and roaring back to focus.

Coppery warmth spread over his tongue, dripping lazily over his lower lip and tracking down his chin. Cool metal settled at the base of his skull, sending a panicked shiver down his back and through his shoulders. Knees buckling, he drew a ragged breath, working to keep his wits about him.

Mac's vision swam, the world growing dangerously spotty. Despite temporarily hampered mental faculties, the blond knew his best chance for escape - and likely survival - was to make a break for it before they forced him into their car.

Disregarding the gun, Mac whirled shakily, keys firmly in hand, and drove the jagged point directly at the face of dark figure accosting him.

A stifled grunt, followed by a sharp curse - in _Spanish_ , unfortunately not Mac's best language, though he had a decent understanding - then calloused knuckles struck him full in the face. More arms caught him from behind, looping around his chest and crushing his throat.

Metal jangled, the telltale sound of keys hitting pavement. The arm at his throat tightened, forcing Mac's head back. Inhaling sharply, he struggled to keep any sign of fear at bay as hot breath prickled against his ear. "No deberías resistirte."

 _Don't resist. You'd like that, wouldn't you?_ Mac nearly laughed despite himself as he strained against the arms holding him.

"You should cooperate. We aren't supposed to hurt you yet."

 _Yet? Well, maybe you should've thought about that before you slammed my freakin' face into a car._

"Hold him, Santiago!" The first voice sounded before him, suddenly escalating in intensity. "The two of you should be more than a match for a boy so skinny!"

"Cállate, estoy intentando," was all the response Santiago gave, as he and his partner struggled to keep the young agent in check.

Another voice sounded behind him, sharp with urgency. "Hurry and get him in the car, we can't have people coming see what the trouble is."

"No one is coming. For all they know, our unruly little amigo here has simply had too much to drink."

A short laugh, then something hard struck Mac square on the cheekbone, knuckles rapping his eye with enough force to send stars across his vision.

"Más rápido, Manuel." Santiago again, sounding clearly worn. Mac felt satisfaction at the tired note in his attacker's voice, but struggled anew when the pressure at his throat was relieved, only for a rough hand to grip him by the hair and pull back so the younger man's neck was exposed.

Mac could barely see two feet in front of him, being well-distanced from any kind of streetlamp, but easily caught the glint of moonlight on the tip of a needle. The defiant set of his jaw merely drew a laugh from the man holding him.

"Hold still, blondie." The man before him - Manuel, apparently - made short work of the syringe, nodding to Santiago as soon as he finished. The two yanked Mac backward, toward the sound of an engine.

On the off chance that someone was within earshot, though he ruled that option out immediately due to the roaring and electronic thumping of the neighboring club, Mac seized his rapidly shrinking window of opportunity to try and catch someone's attention. "Hey-!"

The sharp, desperate cry ended in a strangled sound, cut off by thick cloth. Dirty too, from the taste of it. Mac choked, trying to spit out the fabric as it was knotted behind his head, jerked hopelessly tight.

"Se tranquilo, chico bonito. You want to live, sí?" The iron grip on Mac's shoulder tightened, the firm hand giving him a rough shake. "Respóndeme, americano! You want to live to see your friends again?"

The younger agent seethed, grinding his teeth nearly hard enough to tear through the gag. Grunting and indicating the affirmative with a nod off his head, he hoped his attackers would somehow be physically seared by his hot, angry glare.

"You get your act together, amigo, and this will be much easier for everyone."

His leg struck metal. Too high for a car. Had to be a bigger vehicle, maybe a van. Shoved headlong into the back, his forehead struck hard against the opposite door, eliciting a groan as he bit further into the gag.

"I'm in. Drive."

A new voice, deep and low. Firm, meaty hands caught Mac's wrists as he reached for the cloth at his mouth.

"Don't." The same hands jerked the younger man's arms behind him, securing him with plastic ties. "We will kill you if we have to... And I know somebody who would really hate for it to come to that. I bet he'll do everything we ask if he thinks it'll keep you alive."

 _Who? Jack? They could only mean Jack, but what could they possibly want?_

Whatever was in that needle was definitely starting to work. Mac could barely shift his legs, and his search for some kind of improvised blade on the van's floor was ended prematurely when his hands grew stiff and heavy and refused to move any more. Seething at his captor's feet, he could feel the angry red flush creeping up his neck, coloring his face.

"El niño pequeño está enojado." The third voice held a lilting, amused note. The toe of a boot nudged Mac's leg.

 _Enojado... Angry. Darn right I'm mad. Freakin' furious, actually. If I wasn't so... so tired, I'd show you... just how mad... I am..._

Mac gave in to the incredible weight forcing his eyes closed. Whatever drug cocktail they'd mixed up for him was like an anchor, pulling him down so hard that Mac could have sworn he was about to sink right through the floor of the van. The numbness finally took over, creeping its way to his brain and dragging him fully into the depths of insentience.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks everyone for your reviews! I do want to point out that usually any phrases in Spanish end up mentally translated by Mac or whoever is involved in the conversation. Sorry if I confused anyone! Once again, enjoy and let me know what you think, I'm always open to suggestions or constructive criticism ;)**

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

The fine, blurred line that hazily distinguishes awareness from the blissful void is a surprisingly pleasant line to walk. Those fleeting moments as one passes in and out of consciousness - when the surrounding noises are muted to the barest, slightest level - are oddly peaceful, considering the circumstances. Losing or struggling to regain ones grip on reality is a painfully panic-ridden experience, but those few moments are a welcome reprieve.

Angus MacGyver was offered no such reprieve as he was rushed, full force, into the land of the living. He convulsed sharply, sitting rigidly upright as a ragged gasp rattled it's way inward, feeding his starved lungs and rushing much needed oxygen to his brain.

Everything hurt. All at once, an all-consuming ache overwhelmed his being, unlike the dull sensation of discomfort that usually crawled over him like a slow burn. If his situation were better, he might have found it morbidly amusing that he was well-versed enough in unconsciousness that he could compare past and present experiences.

An attempted chuckle turned into a choked sound, nearly a sob. He was on fire, then suddenly cold as ice; the air around his head was thick and stifling, seemingly impossible to breathe.

"Hope you enjoyed the nap, _amigo_."

The chilling greeting was faint and distant, like an echo, though Mac could feel the invasive warmth of hot breath on his ear. Everything was muffled by the deafening drum of his heart, beating as if he'd just run a marathon.

His head cleared all at once with the needle-sharp, burning sensation of knuckles colliding with his cheekbone. Through the sparks that obscured his vision, he caught a glint of light on glass; that glint slowly morphed into a small rectangle, a few focused blinks providing enough clarity to recognize his phone. The man most fluent in English - Manuel, if he remembered rightly - wore a cheshire cat grin as he dangled the object well out of Mac's reach... as if he _could_ reach. Still sporting the same plastic cuffs as before, the agent's arms were looped over the back of a metal folding chair, and secured to the chair with another plastic loop for added security. Mac tugged experimentally, knowing fully that there would be no give.

Manuel shook his head, light from the dim bulb overhead shining against his dark hair. "An agent as smart as you're rumored to be should have ruled out the possibility of getting free long ago, Señor MacGyver." Frowning at his other hand, Manuel squinted at the card in his hand. "Or do you prefer Angus?"

Glaring daggers, Mac chewed the cloth between his teeth as another sharp bolt of pain spiked through his head. His eyes followed the license Manuel discarded on the table before crossing the room to yank the thick fabric from his captive's mouth. Mac swallowed once, spitting against the cotton on his tongue. "Actually, it's Mac," he answered dryly, coughing as his throat begged for moisture.

Manuel caught his jaw in one hand, turning his face upward. "Fine, _Mac."_ A quick gesture had one of the other men bringing water from the table; the water Mac had been eyeing greedily since his vision had cleared. "Have a drink, _amigo._ We have a phone call to make."

* * *

The mission had been a success, as always. Because their own Baby Einstein had thrown together some ridiculous science fair contraption that saved their butts in the nick of time... as always. And that contraption had involved a variety of trinkets, aluminum foil, chewing gum, some chemical powder Mac had managed to find, and... _as always..._ Jack's phone.

One of these days, he was going to leave his phone behind on a mission. Force the kid to use someone else's for a change. Anytime Jack suggested that his younger partner use his _own_ for once, Mac always needed his phone intact so he could use it to set off whatever bomb he was assembling with Jack's cell.

Regardless, whatever irritation Jack felt because of his fellow agent's destructive methods was always neutralized by the end result - staying alive and saving the world. A small price to pay for stopping evil in its tracks, Jack supposed. He took another swing at the hanging bag, feeling the residual tension draining from his shoulders as the punch connected solidly. Another powerhouse blow with his right had the bag swinging, chain jingling in the most satisfying way.

To his right, a metallic clang signalled a locker door closing. A wadded-up towel flew across Jack's periphery, landing squarely in the hamper by the door.

"Hey, Jack. I'm heading out, okay?"

"Yeah." Jack's reply was short and absent, his attention wholly focused on giving the poor, abused bag before him the beating of its life.

Gym back on her shoulder and laptop tucked loosely under her arm, Riley paused in the doorway. "I don't know how you do it, Jack. Missions always have me too wiped to even think about an intense sparring session."

Shaking his head, Jack stopped throwing punches long enough to reply. "Hey, if Mac and Boze wanna grab drinks every time they save the world, that's great. Me? I pretend this bag is whatever nut job we just caught and teach 'em a lesson. It relaxes me."

"Fair enough. I'm about to enjoy _my_ post-mission routine... a hot shower and the longest nap I've ever had in my life." Riley winked tiredly, adjusting the grip on her laptop. "See you tomorrow?"

"Sure."

No sooner had Riley disappeared, leaving the room empty aside from Jack, then a monotone vibration pulled the seasoned operative from his reverie. Thank God the Phoenix anticipated Mac's improvisational destruction. Matty had Jack's new phone waiting for him as soon as he stepped off the plane that afternoon.

Mac's face illuminated his screen, the phone buzzing sharply. A new notification appeared near the top of the screen just as Jack picked it up, indicating a message from Bozer. Giving the call first priority, Jack swiped the notification off to the side, scrubbed a towel over his head and chest, and lifted the phone to his ear. "Yeah, kid?"

"Jack Dalton."

 _Not Mac's voice. Not unless the kid suddenly adopted a bit of a Hispanic accent._ Apprehension dispelling any note of weariness from his voice, Jack snapped into focus and hardened his tone.

"Who are you, and what have you done with him?"

"Listen to me, Dalton, and do everything I say... and our mutual friend here can come out of this with little more than the couple of bruises he has now, comprende?"

 _Trace it._ Jack was on his feet immediately, running to catch up with his best chance of getting a location on his partner. His urgent footsteps caught her attention, and his mouthed instructions had her dropping to the floor and firing up her laptop within seconds.

Jack gritted his teeth and released a low hiss of air. "What do you want, son of a-"

"Choose your words wisely, señor." The voice hardened.

Jack stood silent, fuming. The comment dancing on the tip of his tongue would only make things worse, and he doubted he possessed enough restraint to hold back if he were to open his mouth.

"Listen closely, Dalton, because I'm only going to say this once. You and your partner put a very good friend of ours in prison, and we want you to get him back out."

He almost laughed _. They've got to be kidding._ Jack's jaw pulsed, teeth clenching. He swallowed the rage that readied to tear a violent threat from his throat; no sense in angering them when they had a hostage. "Lemme talk to Mac."

"After you give me your word you'll do it."

"Not without proof of life!" Jack shouted.

There was a lull on the other line, a soft groan followed by a dry cough. "Careful with your words, American. You want to keep your tongue in your head, _sí?_ " The distant threat must have been returned with a nod, because only moments later, a new voice came through the receiver.

"Jack." Dry and tired, the voice was irrefutably Mac's.

"You okay, kid?"

"Sure, nothin' a little rest and maybe some ice won't fix." Mac grunted softly, pausing for a moment. "Look, Jack, I'm sorry..."

"What for, kid?" Jack knew exactly 'what for' _._ For getting caught, even though the odds had probably been far from fair. For not having any helpful information Jack could use to find him. Mac's 'sorry' was his way of letting Jack know that he couldn't see an easy way out alone. He was going to have to sit tight for now. "Don't you dare apologize to me, you just stay alive."

"No problem." The way Mac mustered as much gumption as he could find for those two words, Jack _almost_ believed him.

"Hang tight, kid." Jack's pulse, already rapid, quickened a touch more at the sound of shuffling and muted grunts on the other end of the line. He bit his tongue, waiting for Mac's captor to speak again.

"Okay, señor, you talked to him. Are you happy?"

"What do you think?" Jack growled, gripping his phone tighter. "You hurt him any further, and I'll..." The elder agent paused, rethinking his threat. The eerie silence in his ear was unsettling, almost taunting. As if the man _wanted_ him to blow up, so he'd have an excuse to let loose on Mac. Instead of allowing him that satisfaction, Jack lowered his voice and growled, "If you want me to cooperate, you gotta promise to leave him alone."

"Is that a concession?" The other voice took on a smug, lighter note. "You're agreeing to follow our instructions?"

"Just give me your word he'll be alright."

"He's alright for now, don't worry. But every second that goes by without an answer from you, he's gonna get less and less alright. You hear me?"

His throat running dry, Jack forced himself to swallow the panic that rose in his chest. "Loud and clear, _amigo_. Now who's this friend I'm supposed to be getting for you?"

"Joaquin Sancola. I'm sure you remember him well." The voice was smug. "You chased him all the way to Mexico to save your partner - not before we got to have a little fun with him, though... Isn't that right, pequeño genio?"

 _Little genius? Ha._ Jack almost laughed aloud, despite the situation. _One of those jokers is going to end up with a goose egg on his shin if they don't watch it with the nicknames._

Something was mumbled on the other end of the line, jibberish to Jack, but Mac's captor seemed to hear it loud and clear. And he wasn't happy. As soon as he heard the younger agent's grunt of pain, Jack nearly crushed the phone in his grip.

"I think you and me have opposite ideas of what 'fun' is, pal," Jack growled through clenched teeth, low and deadly. _Sancola. The name sounded all too familiar_. "And if your friend 'Joaquin' happens by some chance to be El Nacho or whatever his name is, there ain't no way I can pull enough strings to get him outta the big house."

"El _Noche."_ The correction was immediate, tempered with annoyace. "Maybe _you_ don't have the clearance for a release, but I'm sure the big shots in charge of your little organization would be more than willing to let go of just one man if it meant keeping an agent with a track record as impressive as your partner's."

"You've clearly never tried to negotiate with our 'big shots'. They won't let go of _El Nacho_ for anything."

Silence followed as the other man seemed to be deciding whether or not to let Jack's intentional mispronunciation slide. "Perhaps. But things will be a lot easier for your friend if you can talk your boss into giving the okay for a release."

"I'm not sure a phone call will be enough to convince a super-max warden to let a drug lord walk." Texas accent laced with rigid sarcasm, Jack scowled at the faceless voice that had the audacity to threaten his partner.

"We didn't expect it to be as easy as a phone call. We want you to break him out."

Jack couldn't contain the sardonic, humorless laugh this time. "Oh, sure, like I can scale the walls with a sack of dynamite and blast my way in, just like that." He shook his head once in disbelief. "Fellas, I hate to break it to you, but you've got the brains of the operation sitting right next to you. I ain't smart enough to force my way in."

"Come on, Dalton. You are smarter than you give yourself credit for. Surely you've picked up some techniques from your partner here."

"On the flip side, you three can't be nearly as smart as you think you are, or you wouldn't have taken the smartest kid on the west coast as your little bargaining chip," Jack retorted, feeling the icy sensation of panic trickling down his spine. "Whose bright idea was that, huh?"

"We know exactly what we're doing." The reply was eerily calm, darkened by an undertone of impatient ire. "We want your little genius right here where we can keep an eye on him."

"You're going at this all wrong, man. The only one of us who can get your boss out is sitting right there with you, so either you let him go, or-"

"Enough, Dalton. Your lack of confidence is exhausting."

"But I-"

"Good luck, señor." With that, the call was disconnected, leaving Jack open-mouthed, mid-protest.

One look at the hacker sitting cross-legged opposite him told Jack she had figured out exactly what was going on. And she was just as scared as he was. Meeting Jack's gaze for an instant, Riley reverted back to her screen and attacked the keyboard with even more vigor than usual. "Working on it," she replied to Jack's unspoken question.

Jack's phone vibrated in his hand, causing the Delta's stomach to drop in apprehension. A second text from Bozer. Thank God it wasn't sick photo sent from Mac's phone to 'motivate' him. Jack opened the message, reading the initial message Mac's roommate had sent minutes before.

 _'Mac left the bar two hours ago, but his car is still here. Call me'_

 _'This feels really wrong, call me as soon as you see this'_

A tap of his finger, and Jack lifted the phone to his ear again, marching to the war room as fast as he could. Bozer picked up on the first ring; Jack didn't wait for an introduction. "Boze. Get to Phoenix, stat. I know what happened to Mac."

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Apologies in advance, college life is doing its best to make sure I have no time to write, but I'll do my best to update regularly. XO ;)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you all for your patience between chapters; let me know if you're still enjoying it! And always feel free to let me know if there's anything you want to see happen in this story or others, ideas are brain food for me. Enjoy! XO**

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

"He promised two years ago that he'd make Mac pay."

If Riley heard the low, furious growl to her left, she gave no indication. The steady, rhythmic tap of her keys remained rapid and uninterrupted.

Jack's frustration was tangible, lending a greater tension than usual to the war room. "The bastard put a price on our boy's head, and we did _nothing."_

"His accounts had been frozen, Jack." Looking up from the tablet in her hands, Matty gave her top sniper a quick once-over, taking in the anxious lines around his mouth, the set of his jaw, and his hands, opening and closing around nothing but air.

"And did that stop him?" Jack pointed up at the face illuminated on the wall with such force that the director nearly jumped. "He improvised!" There was a nearly indiscernible reaction to his use of the beloved term 'improvise' - the hitch in his voice, the millisecond of hesitation between Riley's keystrokes.

"Dalton." Matty was simultaneously calm and stern, holding Jack's gaze steadily. "I think we all understand the gravity of this situation, so replaying the past is a useless tactic."

Jack was quiet, frustration gnawing at his insides and turning his stomach. "Is there any chance we can do this the easy way?"

"You mean getting El Noche relased with a simple phone call?" Matty shook her head. "We're not exactly the CIA or FBI. We don't officially exist."

 _No surprise there. In our line of work, there is no 'easy way'._ "Then we'll break him out somehow." Jack finally stopped pacing long enough to glance down at the blueprints on his computer screen, stress lines deepening around his eyes and across his forehead. "Had to be a super-max, didn't it?"

Whatever placating response rested on the tip of Matty's tongue was forgotten the moment she felt a steady vibration in her hand. Regarding the call screen with a carefully ambiguous expression, she briskly headed for the hallway and a moment of privacy. "Dalton, get working on an escape plan for Sancola. And tell Bozer to get a move on. We need every bit of available manpower."

Jack watched the door close, frosted glass obscuring his view of the stern, resolute director. Scanning Bozer's last text a seventh time - ' _be there in ten' -_ the seasoned agent growled impatiently at the clock. _Any time now, Boze. You live with Mac, here's hoping that some of his smarts rubbed off on you after being in close quarters for so long._

As if on cue, Bozer's arrival in the war room was so sudden that both Jack and Riley started in surprise. Words were hardly necessary - one look into the older man's pained, anxious eyes told Bozer that no feasible plan had come together yet. Nodding reassurance, more for his own comfort than the benefit of his teammates, Bozer scanned the dossier illuminated on the wall. "Any progress on the breakout plan so far?"

A quick head shake indicated the negative, coupled with a sigh of irritation. "Nada. I can't figure out how I'm supposed to get inside unnoticed. I was Mac's accomplice before, I'm sure the cameras will go off when I'm a hit with facial recognition."

"I'll go." Bozer didn't need to think before volunteering. Whatever it took, he'd get Mac back. Even if that meant infiltrating a super-max full of the country's most dangerous criminals.

Jack opened his mouth to object, preparing to adress Bozer's inexperience when the door again opened, and Matty reappeared, once again guarding her expression.

The Phoenix agents were silent, futilely attempting to read Matty's features with gut-twisting anticipation.

"The breakout is a no-go." The words were quieter than anyone, even Matty, had anticipated, hanging in the air for long seconds before being full processed.

A long moment passed, questioning confusion passing over the agents' faces before Bozer slowly spoke, studying Matty's expression with caution. "So... we've been approved for a quick and clean release? Reaching some kind of agreement with the prison?"

"How'd Oversight pull that off?" Jack was incredulous, traces of awe lining his features.

"He didn't." Matty was solemn, "Oversight can't approve the release of a threat as serious as Sancola."

The words hit Jack like a punch to the guy, knocking the wind out of him for a fraction of a second. "You're telling me that even with Mac's incredible track record, Oversight doesn't see fit to save his hide?"

"Oversight has weighed the situation," Matty assured him evenly, her gaze never wavering, "And I think we can all agree that Sancola has no intention of releasing Mac."

"I know that," Jack snapped. "But letting him loose will let me follow him back to Mac, the cartel, whatever drugs they've got goin'... The whole shabang, Matty."

Holding Jack's gaze intently, every frenzied thought and emotion was plain to the director of the Phoenix. Jack watched Matty desperately, searching her expression for some kind or cue or reassurance.

"What am I supposed to do, sit back and wait for my partner's head to show up on my doorstep in a cardboard box?"

"It won't come to that." Soft though it was, the promise was sincere and unshakable, spoken with the underlying ferocity that Jack had only seen on those sparse occasions when Matty was preparing to cross the line and meddle in the gray.

Regarding the woman with careful scrutiny, Jack forced his erratic breathing to slow enough to test the waters. "So we're going to do nothing?"

"Officially, yes."

Understanding flickered over Bozer's and Jack's faces in the same moment, easing the worry creased around their eyes. "Officially," Bozer echoed, nodding acknowledgement.

 _Easier to ask forgiveness than permission._ Jack breathed deeply to counteract the double beat of his heart as anticipation pounded in his chest. _Hang on, partner. We're coming._

"He's not coming, you know."

Lifting his glare from the patch of dirt between his feet, Mac beheld the man before him with dark eyes, finally clear of the last remnants of his drugged haze. "Who? Your boss?"

The tallest of the three, Manuel, straddled a folding chair identical to Mac's, resting folded arms on the cool metal back. "Your amigo. The cowboy."

 _Cowboy? ... right. Jack's Texas accent._ Mac snorted, rolling his neck against the ache crawling up his spine due to the uncomfortable pressure on his back and shoulders. _He'll get a kick out of that one._ "Jack will find me. And your boss will stay in prison where he belongs."

Impressed with the venom in the young agent's words, Manuel's grin was cold and unnerving, partially obscured by the impressive mustache hiding his upper lip. "You and your friend both seem to think your organization will forbid the exchange." Behind him, Santiago shifted, his large silhouette noticed by Mac for the first time. Inching closer, the dark-headed thug searched Mac's eyes carefully. "Who is your boss, that he would be so unwilling to do this little thing in order to rescue you?"

Mac chose silence, meeting the other man's gaze with practiced indifference.

Impatience hung in the air between them, tension growing with every irritating tick of Santiago's watch.

Manuel spoke again, firmer this time. "MacGyver... your boss. And the name of your organization. El Noche prefers to know who he is dealing with."

The use of his name was disarming, though of course they would know at least that much if they tracked him down. Masking the flicker of surprise with a glare, the agent again held his silence.

"Are you planning to ignore all of our questions until your friend arrives?" Manuel sighed heavily as the younger man dropped his eyes to the floor. "As I said, he is not coming."

"Repeating that won't make it true."

"If _Jack_ disregards our warning and follows Sancola back here, we'll be ready. He'll meet with an unfortunate _accident_ before he ever lays eyes on you." The older man shrugged, shifting in his seat. "Not that you'll have time to mourn."

Mac could feel his jaw clenching, mouth screwing into a deep scowl despite his efforts to stay carefully expressionless. "You son of a-"

"You Americans and your language, dios mío." Manuel tutted disapproval, narrowing dark eyes at the man opposite him. "Your partner had a few choice words for us over the phone. Tell me, you kiss your madre with that mouth?"

"Your madre lets you kiss her with that mustache?" Whether the last traces of sedative leaving his system were still hampering his judgement, or if the threat to Jack had pushed him past the point of sitting tight-lipped and placid, Mac felt the immediate pang of regret in his chest. The effect his jab elicited was swift; Manuel was out of his chair before the younger man could blink, a powerful backhand nearly tipping his chair. Warmth crawled down his cheek, dripping from the long gash opened by Manuel's ring.

The mustache was barely an inch from him now, tickling his ear with a menacing whisper. "He will _never_ find you."

 _He's coming._ Mac closed his eyes, blocking out the rest of Manuel's words. Heavy footsteps sounded nearby, indicating Santiago had relinquished his post in favor of getting in on the fun.

 _He's coming._

The two words looped through Mac's head like a broken record, keeping time with the dull, aching pulse of his jaw.

 _Jack's coming. He's coming._

Every time a hand raked through his hair, sending a raw, dirty shiver rolling down his back, the promise was there, sometimes even echoing in Jack's warm, familiar voice. _I'm coming._

The promise was there every time one of El Noche's goons asked who he worked for, and Mac's alternating silence or sarcasm roused their ire to greater levels. Every time a fist slammed into his temple, jaw, or stomach.

 _He's coming._

As the familiar needle prick stung his neck again, ice running through his veins, deep blue eyes fell shut and the world tilted, spinning steadily faster as Mac felt his grip on reality slipping once again. Oblivion welcomed him with open arms, leaving him with one final whispered echo.

 _I'm coming._


	4. Chapter 4

**Kind of excited for this chapter... this is actually the part I wrote first, and then built the story around it. Thank you for all the kind reviews so far, encouragement means the world to me. As always, enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter Four**

Rapid keystrokes and sporadic clicks had become an ambient noise Jack found almost comforting. Working the War Room with Riley for a good two years had trained him to rely on the consistent, muted typing for support, rather than thinking of it as an irritation.

It was the sound of Riley doing her hacker thing, and she was a darn sight better than anybody else Jack had ever worked with. And right now, it was the sweetest sound Jack had ever heard. Because every keystroke brought them a fraction of a step closer to finding Mac.

It had been three hours since the call. Long, agonizing hours that stretched and ticked by in slow motion, the clock's hands seeming to crawl forward at half their usual pace. With any other mission, time would be flying; the team would be racing against the clock to stop whatever nefarious organization had dared to rear its ugly head. This time, Jack was almost surprised to watch the seconds drag by as if the earth had slowed on its axis. With no deadline to propel the clock forward, he could only hope time wasn't also standing still for Mac.

The ex-Delta was all too familiar with the warped perception of reality that accompanied captivity; trying to gauge the passing of hours or days by irregular meals or glimpses of daylight. Minutes crept along like hours, while entire days could pass in the span of an afternoon.

"Jack?"

Starting at the sound of his name, Jack refocused on the present, locking eyes with Bozer. "Yeah. I'm thinking."

"About the plan, or about what may or may not be happening to Mac right now?" Bozer's tone was cautious and subdued, his gaze darting Riley's way every minute or so, hoping to see elated success flicker in her eyes.

"Both." Jack grunted softly, pinching the bridge of his nose as a dull ache flared up behind his eyes. "I could use one of your Mission Impossible masks to fool the cameras, but according to the blueprints, the only spot I'd have a snowball's chance of getting to without hitting major security would be the boiler room."

Bozer nodded, understanding immediately. "Synthetic faces don't mix with steam and humidity."

"So we're gonna scour those blueprints again and find a new route. One that doesn't take me through the sauna."

"Or I could go." The rookie agent watched Jack's brows draw together, eyes narrowing; exactly the reaction he expected, but Bozer pressed anyway. "I know what you're thinking, but at least give it some consideration... nobody will recognize me. I've been in the field for a while, I can handle this."

"Mac would kill me." Adamant in his decision, Jack's frown deepened. "I can't send you in there alone. And I can't go with you unless we get the whole facial recognition thing figured out."

"It looks like the guards change in an irregular pattern, so their schedule is impossible to predict." Riley peered at her screen, leaning in to scan the numbers again. "I ran the times through a handful of algorithms, but couldn't find any kind of repetition at all. Slipping in during the shift change would be a shot in the dark."

"Sounds like Mac really did a number on these guys." Jack would have laughed if the situation weren't so grave. _Way to go, Mac. Screw a prison over so bad that they totally revamp their security system, and then that screws us over with your rescue mission._

Bozer stared at the blueprints in his hands for the hundredth time, hoping some new entrance or passage would somehow appear out of thin air. "I know you're not on board, Jack, but-"

"I said you're not going in alone," Jack snapped, tension mounting and adding pressure to the persistent ache that had spread to the entirety of his skull, pounding and making it hard to process even the simplest thoughts. "I'm not opposed to you going, but absolutely not without a partner."

Mouth open, an argument hot on the tip of his tongue, Bozer was startled into silence by a voice at his back.

"Boze, Jack is right." Matty's arrival was sudden and silent, causing all three agents to jump in their seats. The director was somber; fingers tapped absently against her leg, the only testament to her nerves. "We need to figure out a way to get Jack inside the prison."

"A nice plan in theory, but we've tried, Matty. I've been over these blueprints with a fine-toothed comb." Generously laced with annoyance, Jack's words betrayed his impatience, coupled with the staccato bounce of his knee.

"I know you three are giving this your all, but standard Phoenix missions aren't anything like personal missions. Fear for someone you care about is a major damper, and I don't doubt that it's getting in the way of your planning." Matty drew a deep breath, making deliberate eye contact with Jack. "That's why I've arranged a meeting for you."

"With who?" The sliver of uncertainty, however small, that crept into Matty's gaze was enough to put the older man on edge.

"Prisoner 218." Matty saw the immediate reaction as soon as the response passed her lips. Slow realization crept across Bozer's and Riley's faces, while Jack's eyebrows shot upward in sync with the drop of his jaw.

"You're serious? He's the last guy on earth who we should be going to for help, Matty-"

"Jack." The smaller woman was determined, commanding cooperation. "I'm going directly against Oversight's orders to save Mac. Believe me when I say I've given this situation careful consideration and I'm willing to do whatever it takes to bring Blondie back home. I just want you to talk to him. You know his file inside and out, you know his skillset and IQ. Without Mac... we need him."

"But... _him?"_ Jack's chest tightened at the mere thought, a cold lump rising in his throat.

Matty nodded curtly, looking past the astonishment in her agents' eyes. "I know. But Murdoc may be our best shot."

* * *

"Thought you weren't supposed to hurt me yet." Recalling the words spoken earlier, under cover of darkness in the empty parking lot, Mac glared pointedly upward, meeting Manuel's own dark eyes, flickering with amusement.

"A remarkable memory you have, _MacGyver._ You recall something trivial I said hours ago, but can't remember what agency you work for. Not even the names of your bosses."

"You've knocked my head around so much it's a wonder I can remember my own name." Gritting his teeth, Mac closed his eyes, finding the oddly bright light from the bulb above to be too harsh.

"Of course, amigo. You make a good point. El Noche will want to see the the color drain from your face when he arrives, and the fear in your eyes when he has his way with you." Manuel laughed once, observing his handiwork. Crimson was a bold contrast along his brow, cheekbone, and lip, while the beginnings of bruising colored his eye and jaw. "We will leave your pretty face for later, sí?"

Mac never broke his gaze, intently meeting the older man's eyes with a practiced calm that somehow seemed to amuse the man even further.

"Come on, Americano. Playing dumb does not suit you. The question is easy. Who do you work for?"

"Told you already. I work for a think tank." Mustering a bloodied grin, Mac was _almost_ ready when Santiago's fist slammed into his midsection, forcing the breath from his lungs.

Watching his prisoner doubled over, blood dripping onto the dusty concrete floor from his lip, Manuel sighed heavily. "You enjoy pain?"

"About as much as the next guy," the blond managed with a strangled groan, wincing at the fresh lacerations on his wrists where they'd tugged hard against the back of his chair. "You?"

"As long as it's someone else's." Manuel took a fistful of the younger man's hair, yanking him upright. Taking in the sight of his marred, dirty visage, the dark-headed man grinned widely. "You, for instance. Pain looks good on you."

Attempting a laugh, all Mac could produce was a choked gasp, hissing through clenched teeth. "People tell me red is my color. Guess they're right."

He knew better than to prod these men. Deep down, he really knew better. But every time he closed his eyes and El Noche's face appeared in his mind's eye, it shook him. Flashbacks of the cushioned armchair and nitrogen tank rattled the young agent far more than he cared to admit. Every time the cold phantom gas mask settled over his nose and mouth, a war raged inside of him. Rationality and pure panic battled for dominance; quelling that panic left him drained and unable to hold the strong and silent front he usually relied on.

The solid blow to his stomach was reminiscent of the punch that had forced him to exhale, then draw a deep breath of pure nitrogen. And then he was drowning... he was _drowning_ and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The sharp, chilling sound of Manuel and Santiago's laughter pulled Mac back to the present, eyes wide as they darted feverishly back and forth, searching the room.

No sign of Sancola or his _awful_ nitrogen tank. Mac swallowed shakily, focusing solely on breathing normally and disregarding the taunts, the questions, and the laughter.

"Whatever agency trained you, MacGyver, clearly never taught you to take a punch."

Mac would take their punches, whatever they threw his way. He just needed to hold on until Jack arrived... and he hoped to God that Jack would arrive before El Noche.

* * *

 _We need him. Just his brain. It's the only chance Mac has._

Repeating the same string of thoughts internally hardly helped. If anything, the knot in Jack's stomach had actually doubled on the way down to the interrogation floor, rather than loosened. Hand on the door, the agent swallowed once, attempting to rein in the anxiety and anger that jointly spiked at the thought of coming to Murdoc for help, after everything they'd been through with him over the past year.

It was ironic, coming to Mac's archnemesis and asking him to play the part of savior. The very idea turned Jack's features stone cold, cementing a look of solemn fury before he turned the handle and made his entrance.

Murdoc shuddered theatrically, mock chills rippling his shoulders and arms. "Kudos on the icy glare, Dalton, really... you're giving me goosebumps. All that practice in your bathroom mirror is really paying off." Amusement at his own cleverness tugging at the corners of his mouth, the assassin grinned impishly. "Come now, Jackie, why the cold look?"

"I keep hoping you'll spontaneously combust." The reply was uncharacteristically flat and piercing, lacking any trace of Jack's usual jaunty Texas air.

The sight of Murdoc's pearly whites flashing a Cheshire cat smile irked Jack to no end. "Haven't you learned a thing about science from our little boy wonder? Spontaneous combustion requires _far_ more than a dirty look, Dalton."

"Yeah, well I didn't come here for a chemistry lesson, Dracula."

"Name calling is so... _unoriginal,_ JackEspecially one as easy as that." Murdoc shook his dark head with an air of disappointment, gesturing for his visitor to sit as well as his cuffed hands allowed. "Let's cut to the chase, shall we? Is this a social call?" The assassin leaned in his chair, peering around Jack. "If so, where's your better half? You two are practically joined at the hip, aren't you?"

Jack was rigid in his seat, fingers tapping restlessly. "That's what I'm here about, actually."

"Ah..." Murdoc's brows raised a fraction, realization flickering in his eyes. "Something's happened to boy wonder, hasn't it? If he's not here, he must be... missing, I'd say, by the look in your eyes." The assassin didn't bother trying to hide his pleasure at Jack's frustration. "What happened? Disappeared on a mission? Took off without warning?"

"He's been taken by a Mexican cartel."

Murdoc's expression faltered for the merest second, almost giving way to... _concern,_ if Jack wasn't mistaken. "Cartel," he echoed lightly. "You have my sympathy. Didn't poor Angus have a run-in with the cartel a couple of years back?"

Jack nodded coldly, fighting down the ever-growing lump in his throat. "Same crowd this time around. They want us to spring their leader from super-max in exchange for Mac."

"And you won't do it." It wasn't a question. It wasn't a judgement. Murdoc was merely connecting the dots, waiting for further information.

"C'mon, man. Even I can't breach a super-max. Especially not one that upped security after our very own Einstein made their security team look like mall cops two years ago."

"You have my condolences." Murdoc's offering almost sounded earnest despite the usual venomous lilt that always edged his tone, if sincerity were something he were at all capable of. "But why the visit?"

Fingers drumming the cool metal table anxiously, Jack let out a rough breath before answering. "You might be the best chance Mac has to get out of this alive."

"Appealing to my vanity so I'll help you think up some MacGyver-esque plan?"

"I don't have any other options." Jack scowled at the reflection of florescent lights on metal, raising his glare to meet Murdoc's eyes. "I've read your file. I know your smarts are almost on par with Mac's. As much as it sickens me to think about it, I know your twisted little mind can't handle someone else taking out your archnemesis. That's the only reason I'm going to trust you on this."

A sardonic gleam flickered in the assassin's gaze, followed by a pleasured smirk. "You're proposing a truce of sorts?" Murdoc raised his right hand as far as the short link chain of his cuffs would allow. "You have my word, Jackie. Until your partner is safely home, I promise to do my best to keep him alive and well."

A long moment passed, the only sound being the low buzz of harsh electric lighting. Jack seemed to consider, never breaking eye contact with the man opposite him. "I'm going to gamble and trust you on this. If you swear to me that you can get this 'El Noche' out of the big house so I can trail him back to Mexico and Mac."

"Oh, Jack." Murdoc looked nearly sympathetic now, head shaking with disappointed as dark brows drew together. "You honestly think you can follow the trail of bread crumbs back to your partner without being noticed?"

"I've been trained in stealth and tailing maneuvers, a-hole. This ain't my first rodeo."

"They'll be _expecting_ you." Laced with all the usual venomous, velvety undertones, Murdoc's words also carried a sense of urgency. "The cartel will be waiting. The moment they think you're too close, they'll put a bullet right between those big blue-"

"They won't get the chance," Jack snapped hotly, standing with enough force to send his chair toppling backward. "Because they won't even know I'm following them."

Raising his hands in a placating manner as well as the cuffs allowed, Murdoc hardly seemed rattled by Jack's sudden anger. "Or," he offered slowly, catching the other man's eye again, "We could make sure they know you're _not_ behind them."

Whatever sharp retort the Texan was about to let loose stilled on his tongue when he paused to consider Murdoc's words. The silence stretched thin, spanning nearly a minute before Jack righted his chair and sat again. "I have no idea what you're talking about, but it sounds like it just might work. Lay it on me."

"Jackie." Leaning forward in his chair, the assassin's lips curved into that same chilling grin that Jack occasionally saw in his nightmares, taunting and leering. "Pay attention, now. No doubt El Noche's men will warn you not to tail him back to their compound. Despite the warning, they'll still expect you to follow. So if you make an obvious show of _not_ following the drug lord to Mexico, and they'll more than likely let their guard down because they'll feel safe."

"So we loose Mac. No way, man, no freakin-"

"Let me finish. _You" -_ Murdoc extended a bony finger in Jack's direction - "will lose his trail." A flicker of satisfaction glinting in his eye, the dark-headed man gestured toward himself. "I, however, will never let him out of my sight."

The mere suggestion was so outlandish and far-fetched that Jack nearly laughed aloud. Brows shooting upward with surprise, he proceeded with amused caution. "Are you implying that you think you're getting out of here?"

"I don't think, I _know."_ The reply was so smug and sure that Jack wanted nothing more than to wallop the other man for even suggesting such a ridiculous arrangement. Sensing the mixture of anger, disbelief, and worry swirling inside the Phoenix agent, Murdoc settled back in his seat, fingers absently drumming the cool metal table. "What, I'm supposed to believe you trust the guy who makes Halloween costumes to pull off a rescue at a cartel compound?"

"Bozer's a good man and a fine agent," Jack grated warningly.

"I'm sure of that," Murdoc replied lightly, "But he's inexperienced, relatively speaking. And the cartel is ruthless. You know sweet Angus would never forgive you if you allowed his oldest friend to storm into Mexico and get cut down before ever reaching the compound's front door."

"And I'm supposed to trust you?" Jack scoffed, arms crossed tight across his chest. "Give me one good reason."

"Same reason I agreed to help in the first place. Can't have some cartel snuffing MacGyver's brilliant light prematurely."

"You and I both know you only want him rescued so you can end him yourself. And that's why you're never, _ever_ getting out of here." Unprecedented levels of acidic fervor darkened Jack's words to such an extent that the assassin could have sworn he almost felt a chill.

Quelling the bare, indiscernible shudder before it ever had the chance to emerge, Murdoc offered up a sardonic smirk. "I'm shaking in my boots, honestly. It's so _adorable_ how far you'll go to keep your boyfriend aliv-"

Powering across Murdoc's jaw with bone-shattering force, Jack's fist was flying before either man fully knew what was happening. The blow was solid, setting Murdoc's jaw to pounding and his ears to ringing, drowning out the furious curse the agent barked as he stepped away from the table. The mercenary's eyes snapped wide open, registering shock before flickering with a glint of mirth. Teeth bared and gleaming, lower lip bright with blood, Murdoc's smile was one that Jack would never forget. "Apologies, Dalton, from the bottom of my heart. I only meant that-"

"Shut it, psycho, I know full well what you meant." Shoulders rising and falling with the exaggerated state of his breathing, Jack stood firm and rigid, taking in the man seated opposite him with disgust. Drawing long, calming breaths, the older man waited before continuing, muzzling the assassin with a cold, steely glare. "Anyone ever tell you how much you look like the Joker?"

"Run out of vampire nicknames already, have we?"

"Not even close, Edward Cullen. I'll be back in a couple hours to hear whatever plan your sick, evildoing mind conjures up." Jack turned sharply, overwhelmed by the need to get as far away from this lunatic as possible.

"I have to be the one to go after him."

Door half open, one foot in the hall, Jack paused just long enough to laugh. "Not a chance." The heavy metal door swung shut, locking automatically and cutting off whatever retort Murdoc had tossed at his retreating back.

* * *

 **Well? Let me know what you guys think! XO ;)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you all for encouragement and support throughout the past chapters... I love to write when I know people are enjoying what I do. Here's the next chapter ;) XO**

* * *

 **Chapter Five**

"I could have sworn there were three of you before."

If Santiago heard him, there was no indication. Impressively broad shoulders hunched over the detailed cleaning of his gun, the heavyset man looked almost laughable in his small folding chair. Mac had been watching him intently for some time now, thinking back to the parking lot ambush - far from concrete, a smudged memory at best - and tried to mentally dissect what dialogue he had retained. Most of the Spanish he could attribute to Santiago, which left two voices, both using heavily-accented English.

The occasional sharp tug with his wrists was a subconscious routine; Mac often didn't realize he was pulling at the plastic ties until they bit at his raw skin. Hands flexing impatiently, the blond counted five before speaking again.

"There were three voices. Not just the two of you."

Manuel examined his newly polished firearm, nodding approval as light glinted off the chrome handle. Sliding the gun into its holster, underlying irritation was evident as he turned to their prisoner. "If you want something, ask a question."

A slow, tickling sensation tracked down his hand - blood from his most recent battle with the cuffs. Mac brushed the droplet from his fingertip, holding Manuel's gaze. "Where is he?"

"Our compound is far bigger than this little room, Señor MacGyver The lanky older man eased out of his chair, stretching and working the stiffness from his back and limbs before moving his seat closer to the agent's. "He's working, like the rest of our men. Operations must be running perfectly when Sancola returns. He accepts nothing less than excellence."

"A whole lot of effort for nothing, since he's staying in prison."

"Always ready to argue." Manuel scowled, arms folding across his chest. "You Americans talk too much. Not a one of you knows how to be quiet for even a minute."

"At least we know how to shave our upper lips."

The smart remark caught Santiago's attention, his gaze first flickering to Mac, then settling intently on his companion, studying the weathered face with anticipation.

Manuel shrugged lightly, the remark rolling off his back. "You know, _Mac,_ I didn't expect you to be this _sarcástico..._ or as your friend Dalton might say, such a pain in the ass? Sancola described you very differently."

"He also didn't pump me full of sedatives and make fun of my friends."

"I'm sorry if you feel my assessment of your partner as an incompetent coward was unfair. But he seems unwilling to go against your employers to rescue you, and in my culture, that is cowardice."

"And in my culture, a mustache that fluffy and unruly is a sign of laziness and poor hygiene."

Sudden movement spurred Mac's reflexes; flinching sharply, instinct drew him small to protect himself as much as possible before he fully registered Manuel's approach. The thug's fist reached a sudden stop, hovering in Mac's periphery for a long moment before slowly drawing back. Manuel's anger morphed into sardonic amusement, satisfaction upturning the corner of his mouth. Tangible detestation hung thickly between the two, neither one willing to break their mutual glare.

"Push me again, and you'll get another needle in your neck. I won't listen to you run your mouth all night."

The thought of losing consciousness again turned Mac's stomach, tightening his insides. His perception of time was already vague, and another bout of unawareness was bound to drag him further into disorientation. The longer he stayed awake, the more alert he became, as past dosages fully flushed from his system. Lifting blond brows indifferently, the agent shrugged as much as his awkward position allowed. "Drug me, then. I could use the nap."

Noting the beginnings of dark circles and the trace amounts of redness rimming the younger man's eyes after his long, sleepless mission, Manuel seemed to reconsider. "I could just as easily gag you again."

The limp, battered strip of fabric still hung around Mac's neck where Manuel had left it after calling Jack. As much as he hated the thick cloth drying his mouth and throat and making it hard to swallow, it was the lesser of two evils.

"Or you can keep your mouth shut all on your own." Manuel seemed to sense Mac's aversion to being forcibly silenced, and perceived the younger man's stillness as an agreement. Content, he resumed cleaning his weapons, moving on to a large hunting knife.

The ensuing silence lasted all of fifteen minutes.

Without banter as a distraction, Mac's own thoughts were deafening; the continuous realization that Jack probably had no idea where he was, and that the chances of El Noche making it out of prison were slim to none. Honing in on outside sounds was the only way to mute his mind; Mac finally settled on Santiago's watch, the only consistent sound within earshot. Routine ticks resonated surprisingly well in the little room, and the blond found comfort in counting along with the steady rhythm for a short time.

 _Fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three..._

Consistency was a crutch he sorely needed, but soon the incessant ticking was maddening.

 _Ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven..._

A heavy sigh brushed past his lips, finally drawing Santiago's gaze. Mac jerked his head, indicating the watch. "Rolex?"

Santiago's stone face cracked, giving way to the slightest smile of pride as he glanced down at the gold around his wrist. "Is a gift from Sancola."

"Generous boss."

"El Noche likes to reward those who kill his enemies." Manuel rubbed at the large ring on his hand, wiping away the last speck of blood. Light glinted on gold, illuminating several sizable stones. "For you, I may get a ring for each hand. Maybe ruby, a reminder of how pretty you where when you bled."

Mac blessed the Phoenix for his extensive training. Schooling his features into practiced calm had been a tremendous asset in the field, and was now one of the only skills he could truly put to use. Giving Manuel no satisfaction was all Mac had to fight with, and he was going to ride that to the end.

Watching his prisoner intently, Manuel glanced back at the gold circling his finger before speaking. "Perhaps aquamarine. Like your eyes." Easily catching the trace amounts of unease that the eerily gentle timbre of his words elicited in the blond's expression, Manuel offered a cold grin before continuing. "And when I look at it, you'll be staring right back at me... wide-eyed and terrified. Just like you will be right before you die."

The knot in his chest dropped to settle like a rock in his stomach, a slow tingle crawling across his scalp. Mac's expression darkened, his tone adopting a biting edge. "Psychotic bastard."

Dark eyes sparked, the flicker of amusement dying as quickly as it had appeared. Manuel took the younger man's jaw in his hand, forcing his head up and placing an uncomfortable strain on his neck. "You _will_ learn to watch your tongue, if you want to keep it." Mac felt the front legs of his chair lift a hair's breadth from the floor, and he fought the urge to swallow, knowing the prominent lump rising and falling would only pleasure Manuel more.

Sancola and his men seemed to have a thorough understanding of and appreciation for fear and mental manipulation. They knew nitrogen was not only excruciating physically, but also emotionally. Distorted vision, hallucinations, euphoria, the prolonged experience of death... barely five minutes had given Mac some of the worst nightmares of his life. And now, the weapon of choice was comments designed to make him feel vulnerable and violated, to wear him down to nothing.

If it was fear they wanted to see, then Mac would have to give them the opposite.

Manuel wanted him to feel powerless, that much was evident. It was only fair that the self-important thug be reminded of the limitations of his henchman status. "You can't do much of anything to me until your boss gets here. And Jack will _never_ let El Noche walk through those prison gates. Not for me, not for anyone."

Recognizing Mac's shameless deflection, the older man grinned, reaching to brush the blond's hair out of his eyes simply for the unbidden shudder he knew would follow. "You think your friend cares so little for you? Niño tonto."

 _Me, foolish? I'm not the one who's going to end up in prison, amigo._

"He never actually said he would do it, did he?" Mac shifted his arms again, wincing as plastic deepened the lacerations circling his wrists. "Jack never agreed to your demands. You were frustrated when you hung up on him."

"I guarantee your friend is orchestrating Sancola's release even as we speak."

Now it was Manuel who resorted to deflection. Satisfaction sparked in the young agent's eyes, a smile ghosting across his battered face. Mac was well aware that Jack had never stated his concession, and while the thugs may be right in assuming he was preparing for a breakout, the fraction of uncertainty that hung in the air was enough to set Manuel on edge, so much that he jammed his knife into its sheath and abruptly changed the subject.

"We have work to do. Plenty of merchandise to package and deliver tonight." The two stood as one, Santiago taking his leave with a curt nod. Manuel eyed the younger man once more, taking in the deep purple and black bruises at his jaw and cheekbones, and the splatter of blood coloring his shirt. "Remember I'll be right outside this door, so rather than planning a reckless escape, use this time alone to think up a few insults that don't involve my mustache. With a mind like yours, surely you can come up with something more clever and original."

Mac held the taller man's gaze, choosing to stay silent rather than offer a reason to stay any longer. As an afterthought, Manuel flipped the wall switch, bathing his prisoner in darkness.

"Adios, amigo."

The moment the door swung shut, Mac moved.

After initially fiddling with his bonds and finding no give, he'd begun searching for any possible escape tool, fingers running over every reachable nook and crevice of the metal chair. The chair's underside was raw, rife with sharp edges that Mac could barely brush with his fingertips. He could be free in a matter of minutes if it weren't for the plastic securing him to the support bar between the two back legs.

Though if he could get the bar to bend inward...

Tipping the chair up off its left feet, Mac shifted his entire weight right, balancing on a quivering right leg as he braced, then mashed down on the rear left chair leg with his free foot. The position was precarious - especially in the dark - and probably looked absolutely ridiculous, but Mac could feel the slightest give. Luckily the chair was poor quality, and after several minutes of desperate stomps, the rear legs and support bar were deformed and manipulated enough enough that Mac's wrists could just reach a sharp edge on the chair's underside.

Sawing through plastic was grueling, and every few minutes Mac had to stop and roll his shoulders as they started to cramp and seize. An eternity seemed to pass before he felt a snap, and suddenly his hands were in his lap, raw skin burning as it rubbed against his denim jeans.

Mac had no idea how much time had passed since the thugs had left, or how much time he sat in the darkness, working the kinks from his back and shoulders. Fifteen minutes? Thirty? Forty-five? Time was nonexistent for him in that moment, enjoying the euphoric feeling of aches melting from his battered frame. Even so, he needed to keep moving. Manuel would be in the next room, probably with several others who would cut him down the second he opened the door.

So leaving the room wasn't an immediate option. No problem. First order of business... find the freaking light.

Finding the wall was an easier task than Mac had anticipated, despite his unsteady legs. Three shaky strides to his right, and he practically fell into the cool concrete; after that, finding the light was a slow, careful search, Mac's hand gliding over the wall as he tried to remember exactly where he'd seen the little black switch plate. Patience was rewarded when his half-numb fingers found the switch, flipping it upward and bathing the room in a soft, familiar glow. Reaching to swipe at rolling beads of sweat dotting his forehead, Mac hissed and locked his jaw the second cold, salty sweat touched his arm.

 _Right. Danged plastic ties._ Mac winced at the matching rings of blood, both fresh and dry, that circled his wrists. The skin was warm and inflamed, doubtless fighting to keep infection at bay. The blond took small comfort in the lack of dirt and debris buried in the lacerations. At least they looked moderately clean.

Scrapes and bruises would have to wait. Mac's prison was bare, aside from the set of chairs and matching folding table, the only other object being his wallet. Cash and a few expired cards were no help in dressing wounds, so Mac's next immediate concern was finding a way out of the frying pan that wouldn't land him in the fire. Scanning the room again, the agent sought out any small thing that he could use.

 _Wallet... light switch plate..._ Gears in his mind working double time, Mac bit his lip and glanced upward. _Jackpot. Incandescent light bulb._

The end result was going to be crude, and maybe wouldn't even work, but it was all Mac had. He was going to have to work in the dark, but with the sliver of light that seeped under the door from the outer room, it was possible. The switch flipped again, darkness filling the tiny room. This time, Mac's eyes adjusted within a matter of minutes, and he made his way back to the room's center with caution, reaching for the bulb.

The warm glass unscrewed easily in his hand, and a battered credit card removed the screws holding the bulb's circular plate to the ceiling. Easing the plate down as far as wiring would allow, Mac gingerly reached upward, fingers searching the small hole until they found their prize - insulation. The thick material gave way in his hand, sliding through the hole with a gentle tug. After fumbling with the the screws for several long minutes, Mac finally felt the bulb tighten securely in its socket.

 _Incandescent bulb minus insulation plus electricity..._ Mac slid the card back in his wallet and stuffed the wad of insulation through a tear in his chair's pitiful padding. _In theory, we should have a short circuit - or if we're really lucky, an exploding bulb - on our hands within minutes of the light being turned on._

With nothing left to do but wait, Mac yanked the legs of his chair so they resembled their former state, and anxiously settled in to wait for his captors' return.

* * *

 **As always, let me know what you think... next chapter is in the works and will hopefully be up soon!** **I'm definitely not a science person, so don't take any of my scientific assumptions too seriously ;)**


	6. Chapter 6

**First off, thank you all for your patience! It's been an off couple of months for me but I think I'm ready to dive back into this story. Sorry for the wait, and as always, I hope you continue to enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter Six**

Jack couldn't remember the last time a mission had given him this churning feeling in the pit of his stomach. Nerves and butterflies and pricks at his conscience were a thing of the distant past, before Afghanistan, and before the CIA.

It felt so wrong. Sending Bozer into the lion's den alone. Sitting in the surveillance van with Murdoc at his side instead of Mac. Breaking a drug lord out of prison and letting him go his merry way. It wasn't right, but somehow it was all necessary.

Or at least, that's what Murdoc had told him.

And listening to him was either the smartest or stupidest thing Jack had ever done.

"This is a mistake."

Murdoc's response was something akin to a stifled laugh; a smirk tugged at his lips, creating the vague appearance of bemused surprise. "Really, Jack? Recruiting the best of the best to bring your boyfriend home in one piece is a 'mistake'?"

Condescendingly smooth and icy, Murdoc's voice had always grated on Jack's nerves. Today, even more so. Because the next few hours would either bring Mac home to them, or seal his fate.

"Don't make me wallop you again." The barest trace of purple and blue colored the mercenary's jaw, evidence of Jack's outburst in the interrogation room. "This time I won't pull my punches."

Declining to reply, Murdoc shifted in his seat and adjusted his binoculars, magnifying the same heavily guarded door he'd been watching for the past twenty minutes. It opened for less than a minute; just long enough to allow the old guards to file in and a new group to take their place.

"That's it, Jackie." Dropping the binoculars, Murdoc turned his attention to the laptop resting on the dash. "In exactly four minutes, the guards on the south end will change. Is the toymaker in position?"

"I'll say it one more time, my prosthetics aren't toys."

The irked reply crackling through his ear monitor widened Murdoc's grin, nostalgia glinting in his eyes. "If they aren't toys, how come I have so much fun playing with them?"

"Because you're a psychopa-"

"Irrelevant. Which brings us back to my original question, are you in position?"

"Of course I am." Laced with irritation, the crackle of Bozer's clipped response was followed by concentrated silence.

 _This is wrong._

Jack wanted to laugh at the persistent nagging from the corner of his mind. He could justify breaking El Noche out of prison. After all, that's exactly what they'd done before.

Only this time, El Noche's sole purpose in escaping was to see Angus MacGyver's head on a stake at the center of his courtyard.

The very thought made Jack swallow down a wave of nausea.

"Don't get queasy on me now, Jackie... your boy just made it inside."

Murdoc's lilting warning dispelled the hellish images that danced in Jack's head, drawing him back to the matter at hand. "Talk to me, Boze," he snapped, struggling to keep Murdoc's icy grin out of his periphery. "You have eyes on El Noche?"

"Getting close. Prison schedule has his cell block in the yard for exercise right now."

Drawing a tense, shallow breath, Jack forced his shoulders to relax as he watched the live feed Riley was streaming to the van. "You've got this. But be careful. I don't want to Mac why you're laid up in the hospital if this goes sour."

"Knock on wood."

"I'm not superstitious," Jack growled, leaning into the monitor for a closer look.

"No, of course not," the assassin conceded lightly, resting casually against the console as he watched Jack's concentration deepen. "But you realize there are about a dozen different places this plan could derail."

"I didn't come to you for a half-assed plan that could go wrong at the slightest misstep, you bastard." Venom practically oozing from his pores, Jack turned his glare t counter the villainously impish grin beside him. "And you're going to keep your beady little eyes fixed on this here monitor so you can spot a disaster before it has time to throw a wrench in our plans, got it?"

Practically pressed against the passenger door by the time Jack was through climbing across the van to emphasize his point, Murdoc gingerly lifted a hand and nudged the older agent back. "Very effective outburst, Dalton. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a bit turned on by that display, in fact."

"Shut your mouth before I shut it for you. Permanently."

"Point taken."

"Guys." Bozer's voice drew all eyes back to the monitors, searching to pinpoint the Phoenix agent in the sea of guards. "I see him."

Jack drew a deep breath, his eyes following a uniformed figure making his way across the yard. "Good luck, Boze."

Knuckles popped to his right, accompanied by a shudder of excited delight. "Alright, folks." Murdoc's eyes were brighter than a kid's on Christmas morning as he hungrily watched the scene unfolding before him. "It's _showtime."_

* * *

With the exception of a few minutes of obnoxious banging and scuffling at the very beginning, the American had been remarkably silent since Manuel had left him to reflect. More than likely, he'd realized that he had nowhere to go even if he did manage to get out of the room that served as his prison, and wisely decided to save himself the trouble of trying. Of course, Sancola had said the boy was smart. A genius, even. It was something of a treat for the cartel to entertain an American, especially one so drastically different from the usual hardened criminals and would-be kingpins Sancola had bounties and hits on; rival drug lords who had wronged him, or the people they held dear.

Truthfully, when Sancola had sent word that he was putting a price on an American agent's head, Manuel had expected someone far more impressive; someone whose entire stature and demeanor practically screamed 'top field agent'. Not a mop-headed twenty-something with a total muscle mass equivalent to Santiago's left bicep. The bounty was one of the biggest Sancola had ever offered, and it put a target on a scientific and mathematical prodigy. A wonder kid who'd defused hundreds of bombs in Afghanistan, and now worked for a think tank.

It was almost laughable, really. When they'd received a photo and dossier, the majority of the cartel had assumed the information was a joke, or that they'd been sent the wrong file by mistake.

And yet, there he was, sitting behind six inches of solid steel.

Regarding the bolted door with satisfaction, Manuel figured it was nearly time for another round of fun. "Santiago, que hora es?"

The larger man glanced at his wrist, gold glinting in the dim light as he grunted, "Han pasado dos horas."

 _Two hours. Plenty of time for the American to catch his breath._

Manuel beckoned sharply, unbolting the heavy door and swinging it inward as Santiago fell in step behind him. A sparse beam of light spilled into the musty cell, barely reaching the worn metal chair and it's equally battered occupant, sitting just as they had left him.

"Hola, Americano." The greeting was anything but warm, accompanied by a hungry grin. Tongue darting over his lips, Manuel allowed himself a moment to take in the sight of the boy, squinting against even the barest light. "Too bright, mi amor?" A scowl darkened the blond's features, Manuel's pet name eliciting the desired response. Artificial sympathy turned the corners of his mouth, an exaggerated pout scarcely visible beneath his mustache as he reached for the nearby switch plate. "Lo siento, let me help with that."

Perfectly synchronized, as if it had been practiced dozens of times, MacGyver hit the ground running in the exact moment Manuel nudged the switch upward. The following pop resounded to Mac like a gunshot. A single spark flashed like a miniature bolt of lightning, and then darkness again swallowed the tiny room.

The two silhouettes converged as one, belatedly grasping handfuls of air where the wiry blond had been a fraction of a second earlier. His eyes already well-adjusted to the darkness, Mac seized the advantage and dove to the floor, taking Manuel down with him before he scrambled to regain his footing. Racing at full speed, the heartbeat pounding in his ears drowned out the torrent of Spanish at his back. Few words slipped through, mostly furious profanities as the rest of the compound became alerted to their captive's actions.

Mac was a blur as he skidded from his cell and proceeded across the warehouse floor, dodging freshly packaged drugs and crates of artillery. The soles of his boots striking concrete kept time with his ever-quickening pulse. Barely registering the sustained rapid-fire at his back, the Phoenix agent faked left and darted right, changing courses and sprinting between towering rows of crates in pursuit of the closest exit.

Of course they would be aiming over his head, they had to keep him alive. But that didn't mean a royally pissed Manuel wouldn't put a bullet in his arm or leg as punishment for his escape attempt.

And that's all it was going to be - an attempt - if Mac didn't outrun the swarm of goons and thugs rushing to keep El Noche's prize from getting free. The arrival of reinforcements sealed his fate; the odds of two to one had skyrocketed to one against a small army faster than Mac could blink, yet he wouldn't stop running. Even though it could only end one way, he was going to give it his all.

It was no surprise when a boulder barreled in from the left, knocking the wind from his chest and thwarting his valiant efforts.

 _No, not a boulder,_ Mac corrected himself. _Santiago._

"Está bien! Tengo al chico!" Santiago's shout seemed to satisfy the crowd that had rushed to lend their aid, and most of the men returned to their posts as quickly as they'd arrived. A few hung back to observe, thoroughly enjoying the rare sight of an American agent at their mercy.

As the boulder-man hauled his quarry upright, Manuel appeared at his side, noticeably favoring his left leg. "You'll pay for that, Señor MacGyver. And for this."

Mac followed the taller man's gesture, noting the way he kept weight off the leg that had apparently twisted when Mac took him to the ground.

"Keep your boot laced tight. It'll control the swelling."

The advice wasn't intentional; solutions poured from Mac almost subconsciously on the daily. But the cool suggestion only deepened Manuel's scowl.

"You're lucky Sancola wants to have fun with you, amigo," he seethed lowly, causing the hair on Mac's neck to bristle as he drew closer. "If I had my way, your friends wouldn't even recognize you when they found your body."

"It's a wonder _your_ friends recognize _you_ underneath that overgrown bush hiding your face."

He was expecting a bone-crushing blow to snap his head sideways, or a well-placed kick to splinter his shin; some kind of violent outburst.

What Mac _wasn't_ expecting - and neither were his captors, for that matter - was the muffled ring of a cell phone from Santiago's pocket. Manuel held his captive's glare for a long moment, never breaking eye contact as he snapped, "Who is it, Santiago?"

"The cowboy is calling."

Glancing sideways, Mac realized that it was his own phone ringing in Santiago's meaty hand, Jack's face illuminating the screen. Dread crept up his back in an icy chill that ended at his scalp, prickling with apprehension.

If Jack was calling, he had either hit a brick wall and was attempting to renegotiate... or he'd done the unthinkable and actually freed a renowned murderer and arms dealer from a maximum security facility.

Neither option was ideal, but Mac wished with everything inside him that it wouldn't be the latter.

* * *

It had gone off without a hitch.

One of the smoothest extractions Jack had ever been involved in, if he was honest. Kudos to Bozer, he'd done his part beautifully.

The whole thing was over within thirty minutes, nearly to the letter. El Noche had been more than willing to pick a fight in the yard; though shanking the other prisoner wasn't part of the agreement, at least the injury was minor and actually created even more chaos to give Bozer cover as he marched the drug lord in the direction of the solitary holding cells. Split-second timing landed Sancola in a laundry bin just as guards rounded to the corner to help escort the prisoner to solitary... only to be met by a groggy Bozer attempting to pick himself up off the floor as he gestured in the direction the prisoner had supposedly fled.

Cue one laundry truck parked outside the nearest faculty exit, and Jack was headed down the road with El Noche in his backseat, exchanging prison orange for the clothes Jack had provided.

Halfway to the border, they'd met up with one of El Noche's men and made the handoff.

Part of Jack wanted to believe that once Sancola changed hands, a couple of cartel thugs would pop the trunk and drag Mac out, sending him back with Jack.

But of course, that's not how it went at all. Sancola rattled off some cliche warning, telling Jack not to follow him if he valued his friend. Jack nodded numbly, inwardly reassuring himself that this bastard wasn't getting away.

Of course, reminding himself that _Murdoc_ was hot on their trail only gave him a small measure of relief. Mac was alone in Mexico with _two_ of his worst enemies headed his way... but it would turn out alright. It had to. MacGyver _always_ pulled through.

With that thought, Jack pulled out his phone and made the call he knew Sancola's goons were waiting for.

* * *

"It's your phone, amigo." Manuel indicated the persistently buzzing device with a nod of his head. "You should answer it."

Santiago shifted, passing the phone off and making sure Mac had no wiggle room in his iron grasp.

"Remember to think before you speak." Manuel's thumb hovered over the speaker button, his tone low and grave. "There's plenty I can do to you before Sancola arrives." With a nod, he accepted the call and held the phone inches from Mac's face.

"Jack, it's me."

Considering the swelling in his lip, Mac drew a degree of satisfaction from the clear, even tone he maintained when he spoke, masking any indication of discomfort.

"Hey, buddy." Jack seemed instantly relieved at the level strength of his partner's words. "How're you holding up?"

"He's perfectly fine, Señor Dalton," Manuel interjected, eager to skip pleasantries and get down to business.

"Somehow I don't quite believe you, amigo." Jack's southern drawl deepened to a growl as he continued lowly, "But I heard his voice so that means he's alive, and that means you can breathe a little easier knowing I'm not headed straight for your little snakehole of a hideout with enough firepower to blast you all to kingdom come."

"You're more intimidating than your friend, cowboy, I'll give you that. But I assume you called with good news for me, not just to threaten us?"

"He's free, you bastard."

"Jack, no..." Mac's heart dropped to his stomach. He'd known all along Jack would pull it off, but up to this point he'd held onto hope that they'd find some other way out of this mess instead.

"The deed is done, amigo." Manuel's grin was wider than a cheshire cat's, his dark eyes drinking in the obvious defeat on his captive's face.

"Damn right it's done, now let our agent go," Jack snapped, grating the words through likely clenched teeth. "We did what you wanted."

"Of course, cowboy, as soon as Sancola arrives," Manuel promised, false sincerity saturating his words.

Mac strained in Santiago's grip, shouting to ensure his voice would carry. "Come on, Jack, you know they'll kill me anyway, there's still time to catch up with-"

The blow that cut him off sent stars across his vision, Manuel's voice cutting in and out as he struggled to clear his head.

"...making sure you don't follow him... what will happen to your friend if you fail to comply." Manuel had taken the call off speaker midway through Mac's outburst, keeping Jack's end of the call private. "Thank you for your cooperation, Señor Dalton. Your friend thanks you."

Abruptly ending the call, Manuel pocketed the phone and glanced at his raw knuckles of his right hand with a trace of surprise. "You're sturdier than you look, boy. I'm impressed you're still awake after that one." The older man shrugged, returning his focus to the agent sagging in Santiago's arms. "I've got plenty to do before Sancola arrives, and I can't babysit you until then, so let's try this again." Leaning a little to close for Mac's liking, the thug whispered conspirtorially, "I'm actually a lefty."

At least Mac knew which way to roll when the punch landed. Grateful that he wouldn't have to spend the following hours dreading Sancola's arrival, MacGyver welcomed the darkness that dragged down until he knew no more.

* * *

 **I know it's only been a couple months but I'm still feeling rusty, constructive criticism is always welcome. Thank you all for your feedback!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Again, SO sorry for the wait, and I truly appreciate your patience! Finding the time to write has been a huge struggle lately... though I'm chugging along slowly but surely. Hopefully this installment is worth the wait, so as always, enjoy! Love you all!**

* * *

 **Chapter Seven**

 _They dosed me again._

Mac's first coherent thought as he regained awareness was, impressively enough, entirely accurate. Fragmented memories of Manuel's knockout blow flickered across his consciousness, competing with the trace signs that pointed to yet another amateur drug cocktail.

His jaw pulsed, silent agony searing the side of his face as his teeth clenched tighter. Yeah... the punch was _definitely_ what put him under.

But the cold, sluggish sensation as his fingers uselessly worked at the plastic ties biting his wrists confirmed his initial diagnosis - he'd definitely been drugged. Post-punch, apparently. And being unable to determine when the dose was administered, much less the amount or type of drug, Mac had absolutely no idea how long he'd been out.

Come to think of it, time was a warped concept after all the hours he'd spent unconscious since being attacked behind that bar in Los Angeles. He could easily have been gone for a day, two, three... a week, even. It was anyone's guess at this point.

Knowing the question would likely elicit laughter and abuse rather than a real answer, Mac swallowed around his dry, swollen tongue, willing his voice to be strong and clear.

"What day is it?"

The question admitted helplessness and confusion, he knew. But in his numb, half dazed state, Mac hardly cared.

As expected, a chuckle sounded from behind him. Nuances in timbre and pitch distinguished the laugh from Manuel's or Santiago's; this one was deeper, rougher.

 _Damn. I was out long enough for El Noche to make it all the way back to whatever hellhole he calls home._ Despite hours of mental preparation and anticipation, the familiar rasp of Sancola's laugh still managed to twist Mac's insides and kick his heart into high gear.

"MacGyver." The voice was slow and careful, pronouncing the name with a note of satisfaction. "Today? Today may very well be your last."

"Last what?" Mac grumbled, gritting his teeth against the growing ache at his temples. "The last time I'll have to listen to your cliché threats before Jack tears you limb from limb?"

The hand on his shoulder sent a jolt of ice down Mac's spine; the touch was uncomfortably light, dripping with mock affection. Sancola shifted at his back, leisurely circling as his fingers traced across the younger man's shoulders. The drug lord beamed downward with cold satisfaction as his hand came to rest on his prisoner's neck, feeling the tension as his thumb brushed across the American's jaw. "Don't waste your breath on pathetic insults, pequeño espía. Save it for your screams later."

Something rumbled in the back of Mac's throat, his head jerking left to shake the calloused hand. "Go to hell."

Taking a step back, El Noche laughed, as Mac halfway expected him to. "I'll give you credit, amigo. You sound a great deal tougher than you look."

"Well, looks can be deceiving, _pendejo_." Mac could only hope his expression matched the ferocity of his tone. Brows drawn and mouth set defiantly, the Phoenix agent mustered an impressive glare despite the blood and bruises that littered his visage.

"Young people and their language. Gracia divina." Sancola tutted lightly, crossing to the metal table, newly stocked with a variety of well-worn tools. Light glinted from a large ruby on his left hand as El Noche traced a finger along the edge of the table. Regarding each item with careful consideration, he took a crowbar, weighing it thoughtfully before resting the long piece of metal casually over his shoulder. "My men tell me you were difficult. Attempting to deny our hospitality, refusing to answer a few simple questions..."

Mac breathed deeply, swallowing the lump that rose in his throat before shrugging the accusations off with false nonchalance. "I felt that I'd overstayed my welcome. Can't blame me for trying to be a considerate guest."

"Oh, Señor MacGyver... there's _much_ to do before your stay here comes to an end."

"I wouldn't dream of imposing."

"Imposing?" A grimy, whitish grin peeked out from under Sancola's mustache, dark eyes glinting with hungry elation. "I assure you, nothing could bring me more pleasure _."_

The words sent a chill down Mac's spine, drawing a shudder from his aching shoulders. "I'm sure. Since I can't imagine you're getting it anywhere else." His heart skipped when something flashed in El Noche's eyes, drawing the older man a step closer even as Mac continued, "You know, with the whole _mustache_ thing and all-"

Fire stung the side of his face, head whipping sharply right with the force of Sancola's backhanded blow. Wet, sluggish warmth trickled down his cheek, a fresh gash marking where the cartel kingpin's ring had struck.

"I have missed your wit, MacGyver. Truly, I have." Sancola brushed his hand across the linen of his trousers, ensuring that the stone on his finger was clear of blood and dirt.

A curt laugh brushed over his swollen lips; Mac dropped his gaze, eyeing the empty chairs behind Sancola. "Seems your buddies don't share your appreciation. Guess I hurt their feelings."

"Don't worry about that, amigo, they'll be back." The older man swung his weapon leisurely back and forth as he spoke, tracing a line in the dirt coating the cell floor. "Manuel is eager to have another turn with you."

"Can't say the feeling is mutual."

Sancola was silent for a long moment, head cocked thoughtfully. "You are awfully bold, señor. I'm sure you call it bravery." The crowbar eased under Mac's chin, tipping his head up so deep brown met icy blue once more. "But I call it foolishness. You would be wise to watch your tongue with me... especially if you want to keep it."

"Bite me."

Lips pursing thoughtfully behind his mustache, Sancola regarded his prisoner with a carefully indecipherable expression. Silence stretched thin, tension mounting with the growing lump in Mac's throat.

"Does pain get you off, MacGyver?"

The question sounded earnest, edged with curiosity.

"Not afraid to ask the personal questions, are you?" Doing his best to avoid the gash splitting his lower lip, Mac replied, "Seeing guys like you behind bars... that's what gets me off, son of a-"

Whipping through the air, a blurred arc was all the warning given before metal collided with Mac's shin.

A raw, animalistic cry tore from his throat before the pain truly registered, shooting up his leg like a white-hot bolt of lightning.

* * *

Jack hated the waiting game.

He hated the way his stomach tied itself in knots.

He hated the rock sitting in his gut like an anchor, and he hated the way every notification from his cell phone propelled his heart to his throat.

The drive back was torturous. Every mile marker on the long stretch of interstate bringing him back to Los Angeles was a reminder of the growing distance between the two partners.

 _'You know they'll kill me anyway, there's still time to catch up with-'_

Mac's last words to him had ended in a sharp cry that struck Jack like a knife to his chest. The muffled sound of flesh on flesh echoed in his mind, replaying like a broken record as Jack glared ahead, knuckles growing whiter by the mile as he gripped the steering wheel.

But what hurt worse than his partner's pained cry was knowing that the kid was absolutely right. If Murdoc wasn't in time, Mac was a dead man.

Sharp vibrations at his side caught Jack's eye, and a cold, sinking feeling settled in his stomach before he read the name. _Matty._ Relief mingled with disappointment as he answered the call with the swipe of his finger.

"Matty?"

"Jack. What's your ETA?"

Jack glanced at the upcoming mile marker, mentally figuring the distance. "I'm about an hour out, traffic willing. What's goin' on?"

"I just got off the phone with Oversight." Matty's tone was grave, heavy with concern for both the agent whose life was on the line, and the one whose job could be on the line if everything went south.

"He's pissed?"

"Very."

Jack sucked in a deep breath, thumb tapping the wheel restlessly. "Sometimes I think Oversight don't give a rat's ass what happens to the best damn agent he's got, Matty."

Matty's tone softened almost imperceptibly as she sensed Jack's tense agitation. "He cares about every one of his agents, Jack, but it's his job to keep the bad guys behind bars. And two maximum threats for one Phoenix agent isn't a morally responsible trade-off from his point of view."

"And he's the top of the damn totem pole so we should all abide by his moral compass?"

"Jack." The name carried a warning edge, urging Jack to tread carefully. "I can turn a blind eye, but my job is to follow Oversight's directive regardless of how I may or may not personally feel. And if this ends with both Sancola and Murdoc free and clear, regardless of Mac's condition, I can't back you up."

"Understood. But we've taken every precaution so this thing _doesn't_ derail, Matty. Have a little faith."

Jack's confident reply was for his own reassurance just as much as Matty's. They'd covered all the bases; Murdoc was the best of the best, he couldn't lose track of Sancola if he tried. And knowing Murdoc as well as Jack did, he knew the assassin would be tempted to run once his job was done. Jack could only hope his solemn promise to make Cassian disappear permanently in Phoenix witness protection was enough to keep Murdoc in line.

 _Have a little faith, Dalton._

"I have faith in you, Jack. But even if you pull this off, you're still facing a formal reprimand. Possibly a suspension. Even reassignment, if Oversight doesn't cool down by the time Mac is home."

The idea of reassignment tore Jack to pieces, but it was worth it if it brought his brother home. "And on the off-chance this doesn't work out?" The ex-Delta hesitated to ask, but curiosity got the better of him.

Matty was silent for a beat; when she spoke again, she'd adopted a note of determination. "I guess we'll just have to make sure that doesn't happen."

* * *

 **Again, thanks a million for your patience... thoughts so far?**


	8. Chapter 8

**As a thank you for your patience, I powered through this one as quickly as I could! I appreciate everyone who's continued reading along... you guys are incredible.**

* * *

 **Chapter Eight**

Mac swore up and down he would never take oxygen for granted again.

He coughed, convulsing with the effort as water poured from his mouth and nose, making way for the air he so desperately needed.

Sucking in as much musty warehouse air as possible, Mac grunted in protest as a firm, meaty hand gripped the sopping mop of blond and jerked the agent to his knees. Teeth clenched and eyes screwed tightly shut, Mac focused on breathing deeply and keeping as much weight as possible off his bad leg, which had been passably set and splinted by Manuel several hours prior.

The maddening, barely-there touch tracing his cheek and brushing matted hair from his face didn't quite catch Mac by surprise, even with his eyes closed. He grimaced, jaw tightening in a futile attempt to catch the guttural moan that slipped past his defenses.

His lungs burned like hell. The thumb brushing his cheekbone triggered a sensation akin to ice; a cold numbness that spread to his neck and hairline.

"Señor MacGyver." Mac's name fell easily from the older man's lips, liberally laced with mock affection. "I fear you overestimate your endurance."

Mac coughed up a lungful of water, wincing at the accompanying rattle in his chest. The way El Noche's mouth quirked upward, it was clear the cartel kingpin had noticed it too.

"You need rest, niño bonito. How does the American saying go... you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours? Tell me what I want to know, and I'll give you time alone to rest. Bueno?"

Forcing himself to ignore the tub of murky water to his left, Mac summoned what fortitude he had left and grinned widely - albeit dazedly - at his captor. "No comprende, amigo."

Calloused hands at his throat sent panic spiking through his chest like a bolt of lightning, feverish blue eyes blown wide as Sancola dragged him upward, just enough to lift his knees from the floor. Mustache mere inched from his prisoner's face, Sancola growled, "Who. Do. You. Work. For?"

"The good guys."

He was dropped like a hot iron, knees hitting the floor hard enough to draw a grunt of pain. Mac drew a shuddering breath of anticipation even before Sancola gave the order.

"Again, Santiago."

Inhumanly powerful hands took Mac under the arms, hauling him back to the painfully familiar tub and forcing his head under for the umpteenth time. A boot to his ribs knocked the breath from his lungs; experience taught him that trying to hold his breath only meant he stayed under longer, but self-preservation pushed him to breathe as deeply as possible before each round anyway.

Mac couldn't quite decide if this was better or worse than the nitrogen. He still couldn't breathe. Every second deprived of oxygen sent him into a deeper state of panic.

Water and nitrogen were a close match, but the shattered leg, numerous bruises and gashes, and battered ribs made Mac's first round with El Noche pale in comparison to round two.

An eternity passed before Santiago's grip shifted, jerking Mac away from the tub and letting him fall. Metal opened the skin above his left brow as Mac's forehead clipped the sharp edge of the basin, water pouring from his nose and mouth as he struggled to draw a sufficient breath.

Crimson clouded his vision, tracking down and leaving an acrid, metallic sensation on his tongue. Mac gagged at the combined taste and smell, focusing every ounce of energy to simply keep from losing what little he had left in his stomach.

Heavily adorned knuckles colliding with his midsection easily forced a rough, wet cough from his throat, droplets flying from his hair as he doubled over. Flesh and metal struck his temple next, the rough edge of El Noche's ring scoring a deep gash from Mac's hairline to his eyebrow.

Mac struggled to focus as blood mingled with the water streaming down his face and dripped to the floor. His once-white shirt was a mess of various pinks and reds, accented by the occasional smudge of dirt.

El Noche was speaking again, Mac thought, but he sounded distant. Waterlogged as his ears were, Mac wasn't surprised. Blood dripped down his forehead, trickling down to gather on his eyelashes. The young Phoenix agent closed his eyes, doing his very best just to keep himself kneeling upright as his captor carried on, probably spinning a painfully colorful string of threats that might've frightened Mac if he'd had the energy to listen to them.

Without warning, a piercing burst of gunfire sounded from the other side of the thick wooden door, jerking Mac to full awareness. El Noche had drawn his gun in an instant, keeping a firm grip on Mac's collar as he continued to kneel, dripping on the floor.

"Your friends, American?" The cartel leader demanded, pushing the muzzle of his weapon under Mac's chin. "You think they'll get you out of here alive? Think again, boy."

The heavy wooden door slammed open with a bang. Mac was jerked to his feet, fast and sharp enough to bring bile to his throat as his mangled leg protested violently. He swallowed the nausea, gritting his teeth as El Noche's gun lodged against his jaw again.

He couldn't bring himself to look Jack in the eyes. Not like this. Mac deliberately kept his eyes closed, focusing on maintaining his balance and the steady sound of his rescuer's boots treading closer.

"One more step and the boy is dead." Hot and damp against his ear, El Noche's voice made Mac's skin crawl. "I'll put a bullet right through his pretty head unless you back up."

"Dare you."

Mac's eyes flew open at the lilting taunt, panic spiking in his chest like a bolt of electricity. _Anything but this. No, no, no..._

The voice was definitely _not Jack's_. Not even close.

"I dare you. Go on and splatter his beautiful brain all over the room... We'll see if you like what comes after."

 _Murdoc_. The last person on Earth Mac wanted to see. And yet... he almost felt relieved, despite himself.

The drug lord's gun wavered ever so slightly as he assessed the newcomer with wary curiosity. He turned ever so slightly to his left, addressing the man who stood at the ready, gun leveled at the dark intruder. "Mátalo, Santiago."

Santiago was dead before he could even register the kill order, crimson spraying from his forehead as he jerked and fell backward.

Mac gasped when the spray hit him, covering the side of his face in a mist of red. He convulsed sharply, dropping to the wet cement as hot bile spilled down his ruined shirt. A wretched sob caught in his throat, and wet coughs racked his bruised frame and forced him to double over, bloodied face mere inches from the fresh pool of vomit.

The pristine, glass-like shine of newly polished leather caught light and turned MacGyver's attention as the newcomer began his leisurely approach. "Seems you've broken him."

The casual observation seemed to amuse El Noche even as his gun remained leveled at the taller man; he laughed sardonically, gripping Mac by the hair and jerking him up, prompting another small burst of burning acid to fill the agent's mouth. "He was a tough one to break, señor. But I take pride in my work."

"No, no, my friend." Painfully deliberate in his tone, every word dripped slowly from the assassin's tongue like poison. Murdoc eyed Mac again, his expression darkening. "Not that. I mean that you've broken my favorite toy. And that, well... I just don't have it in me to forgive."

Another gunshot. Mac crumpled, no hand in his hair to keep him upright. El Noche was the last of them.

He and Murdoc were alone in a cartel compound littered with dead bodies.

"Jack," he gasped, struggling to his knees.

"You'll see him soon enough, MacGyver. Don't you worry your pretty head about it. Murdoc is handling everything." The assassin hauled his quarry upright, gripping his bicep with surprising strength. Murdoc's blade slid between his wrists, severing the thick plastic ties in one fluid movement.

"D'n touch me," Mac breathed tiredly, inwardly loathing the way Murdoc's touch sent ice up his arm, but his tongue was too thick and his throat too tight to give any edge to his protests.

"Angus, dear, unless you want to land in a puddle of your own vile nausea, I'm afraid I can't oblige you." A dark smile curving the corner of his lips, Murdoc wrapped his nemesis' limp, dirt-streaked arm around his shoulders, locking his own arm solidly around the young agent's slim hips. "And Angus, pet, _do_ try to keep your rank fluids inside where they belong. I've promised to keep you intact..." Murdoc surveyed the younger man with an unnerving combination of amusement and dismay. "Well, as 'intact' as I found you... But if you vomit on my new leather shoes, I don't know that I can uphold that promise."

Blond lashes fluttered heavily, struggling to lift more than a crack. MacGyver swallowed thickly, wincing at the acrid taste on his tongue. "I'm nnn..." The word faded into an agonized groan. "...nnnobody's _pet_." Having mustered as much venom as he could for that mildly biting retort, the effort proved too tiresome in his pitiful state, and the blond's head lolled side to side, unable to keep upright.

Observing his quarry's pitiful condition, Murdoc couldn't quite decide whether to laugh or to seethe. "Go on and tell yourself that, sweetheart."

Despite his battered state, Murdoc easily caught the way Mac bristled at the affectionate nickname. He also noted how the younger man decidedly favored his right leg, and a professional assessment of the little torture room drew his eye to the crowbar lying next to the abandoned mess of a metal chair.

"How's the leg?" The question was casual, void of any trace of sympathy, as if the assassin was making casual small talk.

Mac merely shook his head in reply, focusing the bulk of his waning energy on shuffling his good leg in time with Murdoc's long strides.

Grunting ambiguously - whether from exertion or annoyance, Mac couldn't be sure - Murdoc shifted his grip, taking on more of the younger man's weight to relieve the mangled limb. Initially reading the action as a considerate gesture, it was a matter of moments before Mac sensed the change in pace as Murdoc's strides grew longer and quicker.

 _Too fast._

The room wheeled and tilted, fog pressing in from all angles. Pain returned with a vengeance, chasing the last remnants of adrenaline from Mac's system as he struggled to maintain his precarious grip on the taller man.

"Mmm... Murd..."

 _Slow down. Can't breathe._

Something in Murdoc's shoulders tightened; aggravation was evident in his expression as his gaze drifted to the fresh corpse at his feet. "Should have killed him slower." Head shaking almost imperceptibly, the assassin paused mere inches from the body. "Ah, well. Hindsight is twenty-twenty... and adrenal fatigue is a bitch."

Eyeing the younger man at his side with a baffling mixture of concern and excitement, Murdoc noted the sudden change in MacGyver's demeanor and prepared to adjust his hold once again.

"I know it's not every day a dark and debonaire gentleman sweeps you off your feet, Angus, but don't get the wrong idea." One smooth movement, and Mac's weight was entirely in Murdoc's arms; air hissing through his teeth, Mac bit back a cry of discomfort. "We'll keep this strictly professional, agreed?"

Mac groaned, reluctantly relaxing in his rescuer's arms as the pressure in his leg alleviated. Helpless to keep his eyes from falling shut, he felt Murdoc step over Sancola's body, moving easily across the musty prison. Each long, steady stride tugged him further into the welcoming darkness; the first lilting, whistled bars of _Home On the Range_ serenaded his descent into the increasingly familiar void.

* * *

 **This is the scene I was most excited about tackling and I really hope I was able to do it justice! ;) Leave me feedback if you can!**


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